


Freeze

by AppleL0V3R



Series: Illegal Means [1]
Category: Criminal Minds, Leverage
Genre: Blink And You Miss It Slash, Case Fic, Fluff, Friendship, Humor, Locked room scenario, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-08 09:30:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6848974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AppleL0V3R/pseuds/AppleL0V3R
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One-shot Collection. 1. Caught - Freeze. Eliot grumbles, and though he knows it doesn’t change anything, he keeps grumbling. He feels like saying ‘Damn it, Hardison’, but it’s not the hacker’s fault he’s stuck in a freezer with an FBI profiler.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Freeze

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: If you've heard of it before, then it’s obviously not mine.  
> Setting: somewhere between seasons 2-4 for Leverage and between seasons 3-4 for Criminal Minds

_Boston, Massachusetts_

The sliding metal-bar door slammed shut with a loud clank, followed by the seemingly defining sound of the turn of a key locking the holding cell door in place from the outside. The key scrapped against the surrounding metal as the guard pulled it out of the keyhole, and Richard “Richie” Raymond felt all of his hopes of exoneration by sucked out with it. He could not stop his shoulders from slumping or his heart from dropping any more than he could help the sick feeling of dismay making a home in his gut as he realized that no amount of ‘I’m innocent’ or ‘I’ve been framed’ would save him now. Even if it was the truth. No one would believe that Richie truly was innocent an all accounts he had been accused of.

Was he a saint? No. Had he twisted a few arms and cracked a few heads? Yes, literally, in fact. But he had not broken into a home, burglarized it and then assaulted the homeowner as every officer in the building seemed to believe.

Now, because of a few hotheaded mistakes earlier in life when he’d fancied himself an important-member-to-be of the local mob—a phase long since passed in his life—he would go down for a crime he could not possibly have committed. With a small frown, he remember a passing conversation with an old friend about a group of people who had helped his friend out of an impossible situation. One not too different from his own.

He hadn’t made a phone call yet; maybe he could put it to better use than trying to get a halfway decent lawyer he could not afford anyway.

Maybe, just maybe, he still had little hope left.

* * *

 

_Quantico, Virginia_

Anthony Martins pulled up into his parking space, for once left untaken by one of his neighbors many visitors, and was careful to double check that he had everything before he locked all of the doors and checked that the security system was working perfectly. After everything that had been going downhill in his life recently, he did not need the latest rash of car thefts in the neighborhood to damage or steal his only form of transportation as well. He could not afford to get a new one any time soon and needed it far too much for work to have anything happened to the old and beaten down, but very reliable, vehicle.

That done, he made his way up the front steps of the apartment building, eager to be inside his own comfy, if cluttered home so he could finally get a good night’s rest. Thankfully, he had already managed a solid enough dinner that he did not feel hungry enough to try scrounging for food he knew he did not have and would not be able to get until his next paycheck. Feast or famine, he had been told when he had started his job. Back then, it had been all feast, very little famine. Now it was all famine with the feast dangling just out of reach and little more than determination and a denial-driven sort of hope that made him believe he could reach it.

Putting the gloomy thoughts from his mind, he felt a sense of relief and unburdening of stress from the day’s hard work slip from his shoulders as he entered his apartment and turned to lock all three sets of locks on his front door behind him. He double checked them, just to be safe, before turning to put his coat on the hanger—third hook on the left—shoes in the shoe bin—first one on the right—and keys on the hook—the last one of three. That done, he made for the kitchen, but before he could get to the doorway, pain burst in his skull, like he had been struck hard, and he could not stop from dropping to his knees. Another burst of sharp, debilitating pain and he blacked out before his body collapsed completely on the ground.

A taller man pauses for a brief moment, staring down at the unconscious—probably dead, though hopefully not—body of his newest victim. The rush in his veins is sweet, and he knows that what comes next will be even better. He does not stop the smile the stretches his lips as anticipation fills his gut and possibilities circle in his mind.

* * *

 

_Boston, Massachusetts_

McRory’s Pub

Nathan Ford and Elliot Spencer kept their attention solely on their newest possible client as said man effectively shredded the third napkin he’d been handed. Ronald—call me Ronnie—Raymond was apparently the younger brother of a small time Boston mobster who was currently being framed for a crime that was up Richie’s alley to begin with. Ronnie was also, it seemed, the black sheep of the family, what with his clean record and shy demeanor and desk job income. The Black King, as Sophie liked to compare him to sometimes, in him was inclined to pass on the case, but he could see Elliot already mentally getting involved. Their client’s brother may be a criminal, but the client was the one they would be helping by getting said brother out of jail. Helping because Richie, though career criminal, was also a mobster in the way he defended his family—he kept his brother safe and out of the family business because the little brother did not want anything to do with the family business. No matter how murky the morals, clearly Richie cared for his only living relative and was willing to do what it took to keep said family happy and safe. Richie could not do that from a jail cell; he just didn’t have that kind of connection to the outside world like some mobsters and gangsters did.

As they listened it became clear that taking this job would require a trip to Quantico, Virginia on grounds that the man both brothers believed had framed Richie would be there on business for at least another month. Richie did not have a month, probably had little more than a week, before the trail into him would begin, and by then getting him out would become a whole lot more difficult. He was running out of time and options. The best solution would be to catch the man framing him and deliver him to the police all but gift wrapped to ensure Richie was exonerated as soon as possible.

They could deal with Richie’s actual crimes afterwards. And with any luck, they could find a way to secure Ronnie’s life in the absence of his brother’s protection and resources while they were at it. But that would be a problem for _after_ this one was taken care of.

Looked like Leverage Inc. would be taking a brief business trip to Quantico.

* * *

 

_Quantico, Virginia_

As a resident of a large, busy city, Spencer Reid had little trouble navigating the crowd on his way to work in the mornings. However, as he left the little café near the FBI Headquarters, he accidently bumped into someone rather than simply brushing by them. Before he realized what was happening, his coffee slipped out of his hand. Just a quickly another hand snapped out and managed grab the hot cup, the lid popping off and almost a fourth of the contents splashing out in the process. The first thought that occurred to him was that he was relieved the tray of coffees in his other hand had only been jostled. His second was glad he had not lost the entirety of his own coffee. The third was a realization that it had been the man he had bumped into who had saved his coffee—and his day if the amount of exhaustion weighing him down was any indication.

But most importantly was the realization that the coffee that had spilled out—the newly poured, extremely hot coffee—had splashed all over the man rather than the sidewalk. Not normally one for obscenities, the words _oh shit_ were involuntary as they crossed his mind.

In the seconds that followed the split second incident, Reid found himself caught up in a whirl of trying to figure out what to do and aborting a handful of them in the time it took him to process them and summarily reject them.

Finally, the man—slightly shorter than himself, Reid noted absently, but a lot more built without looking like an oversized bodybuilder—grabbed his upper arm in an attempt both fend the floundering doctor off and stabilize the two of them to prevent any further mishaps. Quantico, Virginia was a busy town with busy streets after all and there was only so much room on the sidewalk before passersby could be accidentally be drawn into the train wreck that was shaping the beginning of his day.  He stilled quickly with the physical contact and sputtered out a mangled apology combined with a rueful look.

Despite knowing he wasn’t the most socially adept person out there, he could not help feeling out of sorts over how uncommonly inept he was acting at the moment. Maybe he needed more than a strong cup of coffee to remedy the oddity of the situation.

The man, with his shoulder-length brown hair shot him a distracted smile even as he pulled his hand back to swipe at was probably very cold liquid all down the front of his nice, button-up, blue plaid shirt. With the other hand, he offered the quarter-empty coffee cup back to Reid. With another awkward attempt at an apology, he took the coffee and offered him napkins.

The man looked up again, and after a moment nodded his thanks for the help. After a few more futile pats at the mess, he shook his head and wadded up the napkins. “Thanks, man. And don’t worry about it.” He told him on the heels of a ding from his phone. Before Reid could do anything else, or get a word out, the man was disappearing into the crush of people. The last he saw of him was the man throwing away the trash and fishing out his phone. Still feeling a little guilty but knowing there was nothing else to be done for the stranger, the doctor turned back to the café and went to reorder his drink. Not a coffee this time, and with a little more care.

* * *

 

Grumbling under his breath about the coffee in his nice shirt, Elliot stalked back to the hotel not far from the café where he’d had his inopportune run-in with the government agent. He couldn’t quite say his aggravation was directed at the awkward lean and tall man, more at the fact that he’d managed to get within a block of the hotel without incident, only for Hardison’s jinxes to catch up. In his ear, he could hear his techie teammate laughing like he was a walking comedy show and he growled a ‘damn it, Hardison’ for good measure, but still couldn’t bring himself to direct his anger at the coffee drinker he’d collided with on accident.

A natural charmer, Elliot had realized he was halfway to attempt the other man out of his awkward apologies until after he was nearly back to the hotel. As he stalked up down the hall their rooms were on, he grumbled convincingly at both Hacker and Thief who’d poked their heads out of a room and proceeded to make faces before quickly ducking back inside with muffled laughs. Grumbling some more, the team’s hitter pulled his comm out of his ear as soon as he reached his room and made to change out of his coffee-stained shirt before they all met up in Nate’s room for the next stage of info and planning.

In the back of his mind, Elliot kind of hoped he’d get another chance to have a run-in, though not literally, with the man from the café.

* * *

 

Not long after his accidental run-in and the refill of his coffee, Reid migrated with the crowd of people back to the FBI building—this time with much more caution and a better grip on the hot drinks he held. The café was only a few city blocks away, so it surprised him when another man he did not know fell into step with him by the end of the first block. Dressed in a sharp suit, Reid pegged him for a businessman—the suit wasn’t fancy enough to be a company executive, but sharp enough that it made the wearer look both confident and competent. It still left a very simple question, why match strides with Reid? Before the agent could decide whether or not to engage the man in conversation, the guy went ahead and did so for him. When he started by offering to help, Reid figured he’d been mistaken—thrown by his previous encounter and mentally chastened himself for jumping to such conclusions when he normally did not tend to. However, somehow the offer to help curry the coffee turned into a phrase Reid was positive could only be meant or interpreted as a come-on. The unexpectedness of the bold comment left Reid feeling both helpless to respond and unsure of how to proceed. After all, Reid was no Morgan—random people did not hit on him in the street, and certainly not attractive members of the same gender.

Before he could find an appropriate response to the statement that had been otherwise left hanging between them, borderline awkward now, Reid felt an arm settle across his shoulders and peripherally saw a dark-skinned hand hang over his collarbone. His mind was quick to remind him that all of the stranger’s hands were accounted for, and even if they weren’t, they were the wrong skin tone. His brain was just as quick to inform him that he _knew_ that hand. And when he cast a startled look to his side, he saw for himself that he did, in fact, know the man who had just draped an arm around his shoulder. Special Agent Derek Morgan was a very hard person to mistake after all. But the other agent was not looking at Reid, his gaze was focused on the other man’s. It took a moment, but Reid’s brain finally added up all the pieces just before Morgan opened his mouth.

“I’m sorry, but he’s spoken for,” a squeeze of the arm to punctuate both the ‘taken’ status and who claimed the ‘spoken for’. He felt heat rush to his cheeks, knowing full well that such was not the case. Morgan did not usually intervene, though; not without good reason. While his brain chewed on that, Reid absently realized that the other man had apologized for overstepping and had already begun to retreat without any input from Reid one way or the other.

Still chewing on his thoughts, he frowned at Morgan as the man pulled his arm back and took a step away so the two weren’t crowding each other’s space. “I could have wanted to say yes to that.”

Morgan blinked, clearly thrown by the choice of protest for a moment before he laughed and shook his head. “Come on, lover boy; we’re gonna be late.”

Still trying to frown impressively at his protective friend and colleague, Reid complied easily enough and found himself sandwiched between Morgan and Emily. Both of them proceeded to tease and rib him while he defended himself from the combined force that they made. Not an easy task after starting off unbalanced, but his quick mind and years of solid friendship allowed him to dig his heels in and return fire. They continued on that way until they got to the elevator that would take the three to the floor the BAU occupied, because they ran into Hotch at that point. And Hotch had the same grim look he got every time he had to round up the members of his team for a case. Reid had learned that the more serious the case, the more grim the look Hotch sported going in. Thankfully, his was not too grim today, though it was grimmer than normal—they may not have a serious problem, but Hotch clearly did not view this as a normal case.

And then he told them the killer was operating right here, Quantico, Virginia—their own backyard. 

* * *

 

_Two days later_

Eliot knew Nate was the team mastermind for a reason, but every once in while Nate’s carefully crafted plans had wrenches thrown in them and the fallout was not always easy to predict. Like the fact that the person framing their client was a serial killer who had decided to go play in the Fed’s backyard. Or the fact that Elliot was apparently the serial killer’s type. Not romantic partner type, but victim type. Therefore, no amount of planning would have helped the fact that their target would turn around and decide to lure Eliot into his lair for the intended purpose of making _him_ the next victim.

Which left Eliot locked in a walk-in freezer with no comms to aid him.

This job, apparently, was intentionally out to get him. First, the coffee all over one of his favorite shirts. Then he got saddled with playing a role that tried his sanity. Now a job that left him stuck in a freezer, trying to come up with a plan to deal with the killer while not freezing to death in the giant locker.

On the upside, he could hear voices outside the cooler. Plural. And one of them belonged to the man from the other morning. That could either be really good for him, or really bad.

And judging by the volume of the sound, he was about to find out.

* * *

 

The team had split up into partners as they normally did, which put Reid with JJ and tasked with checking an abandoned building that had been marked as a possible location in Garcia’s search. From there the two experienced agents had decided to divide and conquer—the building was large and both considered it unlikely on sight. So they wanted to clear it as soon as possible and get back to the team to provide help wherever else it was needed. Reid took the back entrance and would start from the west end, while JJ had the front and would start from the east end. Since the building was more warehouse than office, there would not be a whole lot of rooms to clear, but big open spaces that may or may not be filled with large objects like creates or furniture. However, he doubted there would be many obstacles, Garcia’s search had indicated the building was not only abandoned but condemned and would be torn down fairly soon.

That knowledge in mind, he moved through the rooms and hallways as quick as he could, cautious and ready for any possibility but not truly expecting anything to pop out at him.

Turns out he should have been even more careful, less dismissive of possible threats.

One minute, he’s backing out of a cleared room, and the next he cannot breathe past a chemical cloth pressed against his mouth. The surprise at being caught off guard combined with slowed reflexes, keeping him from fighting very hard against the restraining arm around his chest or the incessant cloth-wielding hand over his mouth and nose. All too soon he finds himself losing consciousness, thoughts blurring together too fast for anyone to crystalize in the haze before he falls completely into the blackness of unconsciousness.

* * *

 

When the door to the walk-in freezer opened, it revealed a man of average build partially holding, partially dragging the awkward coffee drinker from the other day. Once the door was open enough, the man had a gun at the ready, trained on Eliot’s chest to intimidate the conman into staying put while the unconscious man was shoved inside. In truth, waving around a gun would not have cowed Eliot into obedience, but he was momentarily stunned at the appearance of the familiar stranger he had already developed a liking for—after all, spilling coffee on his nice shirt deserved a punch at the very least and Eliot had not felt inclined to pummel the man back then even slightly. Momentarily, it turned out, was just long enough for the man to lock them both in the freezer, however.

If any of the team found out that Eliot had been distracted by a guy rather than stalled by a gun, the hitter would not hear the end of it. Which made it a good thing his comm was missing, right then. A saving grace that pulled up short enough to be cursed. No comm meant no rescue. And now he had another person to look out for, an unknown problem to deal, and was not any less stuck in the freezer.

Before he could really dig into a good cursing streak, he noticed something about the newcomer he had not on the streets of fed-central, Quantico. The stranger had a nine-millimeter gun holster sans gun, and a slim black bulge that looked a lot like where a badge might be stored. Apparently, Eliot had literally run into a federal agent in downtown fed-central. And was now locked in a small confined space with the man.

Right then, the hitter felt the need to grumble a ‘damnit, Hardison,’ despite the fact that it’s not actually the hacker’s fault Eliot was locked in a freezer with a federal agent and an unknown threat lying in wait outside. But the need was quickly forgotten when the unconscious man’s fingers started twitching and the first signs of awareness made themselves known.

* * *

 

Reid woke to an amalgam of sensations, each vying for the majority of his attention only to be trampled out with each new piece of information—the hardness of the floor, the chill clinging to his skin, the ache in his head, the terrible taste in his mouth, the clanking of metal—until finally his eyes were open and he could truly begin processing. The first thing he saw from his sideways viewpoint was the metal wall and the dirtied concrete he lay on, and then he realized there were boots in his line of vision. Not just discarded boots, but ones currently being used by a person. 

The realization was enough to have him jackknifing upright and twisting towards the owner of those boots.

It took his brain a moment to realize that the average-height, brown-haired, slightly bulky man facing him with arms crossed and eyes intent was the very same man he’d spilled coffee on two days prior. This day seemed determined to become memorable in the worst ways. Stifling a groan at his terrible, awful luck, Reid made to get up—a move that backfired quickly when his legs protested rather than solidified and he ended up flat on his ass once more. This time he did groan.

The man kneeled next to Reid—when had he moved?—and placed a steadying hand on Reid’s shoulder, his eyes focused on Reid’s uncooperative limbs. “Give it a minute for the feeling to return, you were unconscious for a bit.”  Reid could not help but pick up on the subtle southern twang to the deep, gravel voice so close to his ear, and the affect was a scattering of goosebumps skittering up his arms and down his spine. Still he nodded easily, the profiler in him more worried about why he had been unconscious than who had stood guard over him in the meanwhile.

And was he in a walk-in freezer?

Apparently he and JJ had drawn the short straw for UnSub hunting, and he had gotten caught unawares.

His luck just kept getting better and better, didn’t it?

The hand on his shoulder squeezed a bit, drawing him out of his wallowing before it could really get going, and he glanced up, swallowing convulsively when he caught sight of the face staring back at him. His initial impression of intense eyes did not begin to cover it. Morgan and Prentiss were never going to let him live this one down—not in any respect. Clearing his throat, he motioned for the man to help him up, certain that the time it had taken him to gain his bearings had qualified as ‘giving it a minute.’ “I’m, uh, I’m Dr. Spencer Reid with FBI’s Behavior Analysis Unit—” he paused, realizing that introducing himself so formally like that might not have been the best starter, but he good with magic, not socially interacting adeptly. "Uh,” clearing his throat again, he ignored the burn of embarrassment in his cheeks to forge on, “how long have I been out, exactly, and where are we?” Now that he thought about it, there were probably more pressing questions that required answers instead, but he knew better than to bombard the man with a series of questions. Only Reid did well with such pressure.

The man did not seem particularly put out to suddenly be in the spotlight. “Well, Dr. Spencer Reid,” a slight tug of his lips that almost had Reid blinking at the realization that this man was more amused and less irate with him, “I’d guess you’ve been out a little over an hour, and we’re definitely locked in a walk-in freezer in an abandoned warehouse by what I’m guessing is a lunatic.”

Reid noted that while the man had answered both questions, he had not volunteered personal information. Like his name. Or why he was also stuck in a walk-in freezer. But there were other things to consider too, like how were they getting out? Surely JJ was finished with her portion of the sweep and had realized he was still in the building. Knowing her as well as he did, he knew she would already be sweeping his portion of it as well, looking for clues as to why he hadn’t yet turned up or called to say he’d found something.

Speaking of calling—Reid patted his pockets in the vain hope the UnSub had not taken all of the essentials. An empty holster and no cell phone, though he did still have his badge. Yet another thing to chalk up to his rotten luck.

He started at the sound of a cleared throat, and glanced over at the man who was still almost invading his space. In the back of his mind, he noted how odd it was that he had forgotten that bit, especially considering how Reid was always aware of his personal bubble, and maintaining his personal bubble, but it went ignored in favor of focusing on the situation at hand. “Uh…?”

“You’re a fed, right?” He barely managed to nod his affirmation, lingering questions of ‘what gave him away’ similarly ignored, before the man was barreling on to his next question. “Were you looking for this guy?” All the while, those intense eyes made it hard for Reid to form coherent sentences while pinned under such focus. He was definitely not used to being the center of such undivided attention, by what were clearly observant eyes linked to an intelligent mind.

So caught up, was he, Reid almost blurted out all his information on an ongoing investigation—not the worst thing, but certainly something he usually knew better than to do. “Yeah, he’s a person of interest in an active investigation. Do you know him? How did you get in here?”

He shook his head, deep chestnut brown swaying slightly with the motion, “No.” A pause, “Not really, I was doing some due diligence for a client, and _bam_ , I find myself in here. Like you.” Reid got the feeling there was a lot more to that story than the man let on, but also had the feeling that there was only so much he was going to get on the spot. So he nodded again, easily excepting that as the bulk of the explanation. He could press later, if and when he needed to. Right now they needed to find a way out. As if seeing the thought cross his mind the man shook his head again. “I’ve already looked, we’re locked in and goin’ nowhere real fast.” A shrug of his shoulders, as he leaned back on his haunches a little bit.

Alright, so what did that leave? Reid eyed his surroundings and came to the only available conclusion. They would have to wait until someone came to get them. With any luck, it would be his team. But with the way his luck had been going…he reminded himself he was well trained and equipped, gun or no gun, to deal with a serial killer if that was who walked through the door.

Turning his attention back to the other man, he reached for something to say, trying his best not to be completely socially awkward. “So, uh, I didn’t catch your name.”

The man blinked at him, seeming to consider him for the barest of moments, before a smile tugged his lips. It was a nice smile, nicest he’d seen directed his way in…forever. “Sorry, I’m Eliot.” He held out a hand to make the introduction official, and Reid didn’t feel entirely off balance by reaching out to grab it.

* * *

When Parker finds them, Eliot is not entirely sure how she did or how she even got into the freezer. One minute he’s in deep conversation about science theorizes on time warps with Dr. Spencer Reid, and the next the little blonde is in the room looking somewhere between accomplished and bored. And similarly he finds himself caught between feeling relieved and disappointed. Normally his job means impersonating feds, not discussing metaverse theories like a science geek with an awkward FBI agent who could just as easily arrest him. But it was on the tip of his tongue to tell the tall, lanky man to stay in touch.

In the moments after her arrival, everything moves so fast, Eliot almost gets the feeling of whiplash once it’s all said and done. Parker, thief extraordinaire that she is, had both men on their feet and convinced that the cavalry was on its way—meaning an entire team of feds, Spencer’s colleagues no doubt, and therefore a very good reason to get gone. Both his team and Spencer’s had covered a lot of ground in the time the two had been in the freezer, enough so that the feds had the killer dead to rights and were closing in, while his team had exacted what they had come to Quantico for in the first place: justice, and clearing their client’s name. And the, judging by Parker’s face, a hidden stash that would never make it to any official FBI documents.

By the time all was said and done, Eliot found himself in the backseat of a nondescript black car with the rest of his team, Spencer too far in the rearview mirror to see, and no way to contact him for…anything.

Until Hardison leaned into his personal space, bumping his elbow into Eliot’s side to ensure he had the Hitter’s attention. The shorter man turned with agitated glare and a sharp comment that never made it passed his lips. Hardison was holding a piece of paper with a string of ten digits and a name he’d recently gotten to know very well.

Apparently, Eliot would have to come up with a line for the team Hacker that didn’t solely consist of ‘damnit’ in the future. Right then, he snagged the piece of paper and refrained from immediately fishing out his phone while the younger man didn’t bother to contain his self-satisfied gloating. Scratch that, his standard phrase was still very much needed for future use.


End file.
